


Playing with fire

by RoughTweedAction (Donya)



Series: Holmescest smutty fiku-miku [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But it stays in the family (haha), Loss of Virginity, M/M, No underage, Sherlock's First Time, Smoking, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-09 06:00:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10405479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donya/pseuds/RoughTweedAction
Summary: When Sherlock is 17, he burns down Daddy's shed. Mycroft fears it has something to do with Eurus and comes home to handle yet another family crisis. Sherlock seduces him.





	

Mycroft waited for this to happen. An ambiguous comment, a sudden interest in Greek mythology, a half-recovered memory. Sherlock resembled a ticking time-bomb, hiding secrets he wasn't aware of, monitored by his concerned family. The idea of revealing the whole truth and helping Sherlock come to terms with it seemed too cruel. There was no point in reopening old wounds. So they watched him closely and it finally happened. Sherlock set fire to the garden shed. The explanations he offered changed and that was enough to alarm the parents, who promptly alerted Mycroft. He was summoned to deal with the problem and establish if Sherlock intentionally followed in Eurus's footsteps.

Sherlock was his usual, misbehaving self. He made dozens of scathing comments about Mycroft's weight, his new life in London, his lack of interest in Sherlock's life. The questions about school remained unanswered, Sherlock was surely still bitter about the bullying incident. Mycroft remembered the frantic call from Sherlock, right when he was excitedly preparing for his first serious undercover mission. Eastern Europe, spring 1989, the old ally was about to make a historic choice and it was Mycroft's job to ensure the country would open up to the West. And right then Sherlock rang him and asked if he could come to London and move in with him, only for a couple of days. Mycroft later had doubts about his stern tone of voice and a harsh piece of advice he gave his brother. Over a year later, Mycroft wished he had stayed and looked after his brother.

Sherlock harboured all sorts of suspicions about Mycroft's absence and all the pounds lost and regained. He would never guess the latter was caused by fudge confusingly called 'a little cow' and warm ice cream. Driving on the wrong side with confidence was stressful even for Mycroft and local sweets were the only source of comfort in the foreign land. But Sherlock knew nothing about that, safe and sound in his own little world of deductions, school and soon, university.

Mycroft planned to spend only the weekend at home. Two days seemed enough to discover what Sherlock's true motivation was and ensure it would never happen again. Sherlock sensed his impatience and stubbornly refused to cooperate. He lied convincingly about the fire, claimed it was an accident, then changed his mind and admitted it was an experiment gone wrong, only to blatantly reveal he was high and dropped a lit cigarette on a pile of hay. There was no hay in the shed, Mycroft didn't bother even saying that. Only when it was dark outside and the interrogation was postponed until morning did Mycroft bring up Redbeard. Asked what if the dog were trapped in the shed. Sherlock was genuinely distraught by the thought of losing a dog. He didn't remember Eurus, Victor or Musgrave.

 

A long bath was not an indulgence but a necessity after such a tedious day. Mycroft soaked in warm water, his mind was burning with ideas and solutions to keep Sherlock out of trouble. He would not let him waste his potential, Sherlock was going to become a respectable, useful member of society whether he liked it or not. His idiotic plans not to continue his education had to be corrected and his adolescent self-destructiveness stopped. While he lay in the tub, plotting and creating small waves with his hands, he remembered why he was so reluctant to visit his parents. He diced with death in so many ways on the continent, but back at home lost his bottle and wouldn't dare to smoke openly. He had to wait until Mummy was asleep to secretly do it in the privacy of his boyhood bedroom. He even brought his own ashtray.

There was nothing more comforting than the pleasant ritual of ending a day with a cigarette or two. Mycroft picked up that habit on his mission and still remembered the taste of cigarettes smuggled from West Berlin through East Germany. He felt so nonchalant and invincible when he chain-smoked with his handler. The youthful arrogance faded away, the mild addiction remained.

The bedroom appeared smaller, not big enough to contain Mycroft's new worries and the growing list of responsibilities. He couldn't wait to leave it and already searched for a believable excuse to avoid coming home for Christmas. The window was open wide to let the smoke out. It was nearly one, the house was quiet, only Mycroft awake. He was too agitated to fall asleep. After Musgrave, mother and father focused on Sherlock and Eurus, Mycroft hid his own anxieties from them with practised ease. He didn't want them to know the fire Eurus had started affected him as well. Someone had to stay strong and unemotional, and that was Mycroft's role.

The door suddenly opened and Mycroft's heart stopped for long, terrifying seconds. It was not Mummy, thank God. Sherlock walked in, oblivious to the shock Mycroft had just experienced.

'Do you mind if I join you?'

One look and Mycroft knew there was nothing underneath the dressing gown.

'Yes, I do. It's late, go away.'

'I'll tell Mummy you smoke.'

'You won't,' Mycroft said, knowing he was right. Despite endless arguments and resentment, Sherlock was a loyal brother. Always the two of them, united against the world. Or at least they used to be.

Sherlock lay on the other side of the bed, Mycroft sat up, back against the headboard. 

'Can I have one?' Sherlock pointed to the packet that was on the duvet between them.

'Absolutely not. I'm sure you have your own. This is not something we will ever do together,' Mycroft stated categorically and covered the packet with his hand. 

Sherlock stared at him long enough to attract his attention. Mycroft blew out of the smoke unnecessarily slowly, looking into Sherlock's eyes.

'I don't. I have never done this,' Sherlock declared. 'I waited for you.'

For Mycroft to be at a loss for words was a very rare occurrence. Sherlock was an angry, frustrated teenager, bent on disappointing his family and ruining his life. Smoking was to be expected, even Mummy's strong disapproval wasn't going to prevent it. And yet he sounded honest. He did want to share that experience with his big brother. Merely to test whether or not Sherlock was a good liar, Mycroft lit a cigarette and gave it to him. An enthusiastic but shallow inhale followed by a coughing fit confirmed the startling confession. The unfamiliar taste caused a grimace Sherlock didn't hide. He told the truth. That was his first time. 

'This is not what I expected,' Sherlock muttered and closed his lips around the filter end again.

Mycroft couldn't tear his gaze away. 'It gets better. You'll learn to love it,' he said, frowning at his own words. 'Don't keep the smoke in your mouth, take it deeper, hold it for longer. Then let it out.'

Sherlock followed the instructions. He ended up coughing, his eyes watered. 'Wait. Show me how you do it.'

Mycroft lifted his cigarette to his mouth, took a deep, luxurious pull, closed his eyes to savour it. He loved the warmth, the complete relaxation. All of his worries temporarily unimportant. His mouth fell open as if to release a moan and he exhaled. He almost forgot about being watched. Sherlock's eyes were huge, Mycroft grabbed his chin, tilted his head towards the light. Pupils dilated. Sherlock lied about cigarettes but not about getting high and he had the audacity to face Mycroft whilst he was as high as a kite.

'Oh, Sherlock,' Mycroft groaned, disappointed and moved away from him. 'What did you take?'

Sherlock lay back comfortably. 'It must be painful to admit you've made a wrong deduction, o smart one.'

Now it was Mycroft's eyes that were wide. He tensed up again and in desperation finished his cigarette in seconds. He quickly started another one to avoid having to reply, although words were optional. Sherlock, indecently pleased with himself, continued his first adventure with smoking, He succeeded, finally managed to breathe in the smoke without choking on it. Mycroft glanced at him then, saw the surprised expression on his face. Soon, Sherlock features softened and he greedily sucked on the cigarette again, this time he sighed quietly, lost in the new sensation. Mycroft knew the feeling, the pleasant dizziness, numbing heaviness, gentle pulsation spreading from top to toe, not long-lasting and thus sweeter. A few deeper draws and a breathy 'oh', Mycroft was so mesmerised he forgot about his cigarette and the ash gathered on his pyjama shirt.

'Damn!' He swore and quickly took it off and throw it on the floor, shaken and ashamed by the mess he made. Sherlock looked at him, dazed, He eyed Mycroft's belly. Mycroft steeled himself for a cruel remark about the ineffective diet and the obvious lack of exercising. It was so easy for Sherlock to say, he didn't turn to food for stress relief and had no idea how hard it was to choose vegetables over mood-boosting desserts. Feeling uncomfortably self-conscious, Mycroft moved the covers to hide his unsightly flabby stomach that was never meant to be flat, but Sherlock caught his wrist and said, 'Don't.' Against reason, Mycroft complied with that surprising wish.

Moments later, Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette out in the ashtray and neither requested another nor left. Instead, he propped himself up on one elbow, watched as Mycroft struggled to appear perfectly composed. The air was thick between them, vibrating with tension. It was going to happen as soon as he was done with his smoke and he couldn't decide if he wanted to finish sooner or make it last longer.

'This is wrong,' he foolishly stated the obvious, without much conviction.

'I know why you vanished for so long. Not a single letter, nothing.'

Mycroft meant to correct him, explain he was abroad. But he stayed silent. They were never going to be like others, nothing about their relationship would be normal and Sherlock didn't even know half of the truth.

 

His lips felt soft and warm, hesitantly brushed against Mycroft's cheek. He allowed it, for the reason he didn't dare to name. The fleeting touch was not innocent, but Sherlock was, he had never kissed anyone. Mycroft sighed heavily, he had hoped the attraction was one-sided and under control.

The ashtray was moved out of the way and Sherlock was suddenly; close, too close to think clearly. He gave Mycroft a quick look, as if asking for permission, then leant forward and kissed him, so endearingly shyly. His mouth stayed closed, his inexperience should have reminded Mycroft to protect the boy, even from himself. Sherlock was eccentric, smart, different in so many ways and thus vulnerable. Someone might take advantage of him, lead him astray. Mycroft had no illusion that he could protect him all his life. What he could do was to show him what physical intimacy ought to be like. With the most benevolent intention, Mycroft returned the kiss, tenderly, patiently. His hands remained on the bed, nothing stopped Sherlock if he wanted to pull away. Mycroft kissed his lower lip, the corners of his mouth, then repeated the process with his tongue. He felt Sherlock smile and open up for him. In that moment, Mycroft stopped, he had his limits. A very brotherly kiss was not the end the of the world, but the continuation would be.

'Did you start the fire to see me?' 

Sherlock turned his head, his breath was hot against Mycroft's ear. 'What do you think?'

Considering the family history, Mycroft expected the worst. He shivered when Sherlock nipped his earlobe.

'That was just a wonderful coincidence. The real question is why you and our parents think it was a deliberate action. Any arsonists in the family?'

'Before you were born, I might have done something similar,' Mycroft lied. In his mind, it was convincing enough to end the conversation. 'Time for bed.'

'I agree.' Sherlock untied the belt and shrugged the gown off his shoulders, then took a seat in Mycroft's lap. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes, hoping his exaggerated annoyance would ruin the mood. There was nothing sexy about a disapproving sibling. 

'You will only regret this.'

'No.'

'You'll hate me for letting this happen. You will wish you weren't so rebellious. Your sex life would be tainted by this forever. Incest is vile, it's the most revolting thing in the world.'

'Excellent, You delivered the big brother speech. Can we carry on? In case you haven't noticed, this is becoming rather urgent for me,' Sherlock emphasises his words by rubbing against Mycroft's exposed skin. Yes, the hot hardness sliding against him was impossible to ignore, as much as his own growing need. He still could prevent it, he thought as his hands settled on Sherlock's hips, lightly enough to let him decide. Sherlock had already made up his mind,

They kissed again, deeply this time. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what to do with his tongue, for a moment he was passive, let Mycroft lead him, then eagerly mirrored his movements. A heartbeat later, he experimented with teeth, bit Mycroft's bottom lip, almost drawing blood, then soothed it with gentle licks. His smooth, lean body seemed to surround Mycroft, hands on his shoulders, legs bracketing his hips and tongue sliding in with increasing confidence.

'I hope you regret running away. So much time wasted.'

'God, Sherlock, you weren't even sixteen.'

'My age is not the biggest obstacle, don't you think? I'll still be your brother when I'm eighteen.'

'One more reason not to do this.'

Sherlock ran his hands down Mycroft's chest, paused to thumb his nipples, then continued until he reached the pyjama trousers. Loose enough to slip both hands in, curl fingers around the shaft and stroke teasingly. Mycroft sincerely meant to put an end to this, get Sherlock off with a couple of squeezes and tell him to sleep in his own bed, drag him there by force, if necessary. He didn't intend to lift his hips just slightly to help Sherlock remove his bottoms, yet that was what he did and the last barrier was gone, his entire nightwear now on the floor. Sherlock was back in his lap, grinding away, his mouth, hot and wet on Mycroft's neck. Nothing was easier than to give in, revel in the fervency and disregard the consequences. Sherlock sensed the change in his attitude and guided Mycroft's hands to his backside. Mycroft stroked the sensitive flesh, splayed his fingers across both cheeks and squeezed until Sherlock gasped. He reached lower, where Sherlock's thighs began and stayed there. 

'Coward.'

Sherlock retrieved a tube of lubricant from the pocket of his gown and handed it to Mycroft. 'This doesn't mean I planned any of this,' he clarified, insufferable little liar.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes in disbelief. 'Is that so?' He wanted to sound cross, displeased with Sherlock's manipulation and not excited. A part of him craved it more than anything else, to claim Sherlock, keep him for himself, ensure he would never want anyone else. Have him beg for it, feel his body stretch around him, come inside him, mark him.

 

He let the pad of his finger linger over Sherlock's entrance,  circled it, spreading the lubricant. The anticipation and the gentle touch drove Sherlock mad, he squirmed impatiently, threatened to do it himself. That stopped when he was breached, he froze, fell silent. He hid his face in the crook of Mycroft's neck to keep his expression a mystery. Mycroft didn't mind it, there was no need to see his face to know how he felt. His muscles tensed and relaxed, thighs shook and hands grasped Mycroft;s arms. Whimpers, barely audible but let out close to Mycroft's ear, caused him to slow down. He was knuckle-deep in the tight heat, his free hand massaged Sherlock's back reassuringly. The pain would soon become a part of the complicated, darker pleasure. The second finger was hard to endure, the erection trapped between their bodies softened noticeably and Sherlock clenched Mycroft's arms in a bruising grip. That was fair, Sherlock was not going to be comfortable the following day either.

Mycroft crooked his finger, searching. Tenderly, cautiously, knowing how madly sensitive the right spot was. Sherlock twitched, although he had to expect this. 'Again,' he demanded and trembled when his wish was fulfilled. He had to be reminded countless times to be quiet. Mycroft secretly loved it, both the noise and his sharp whispers. Sherlock rocked against him, stunned by the combination of intense sensations. He was hard again, Mycroft wanted to touch him, but then it would be over too soon. Groans and 'please, Myc' were dangerously loud, exhilarating. He continued, unconcerned, while Sherlock was coming undone.

'Up,' he had to say it twice. His fingers slipped out and that got Sherlock's attention. He sat back on his heels and watched as Mycroft slickened himself. The boy, flushed and aching, nervously compared the size of Mycroft's digits to his girth, then made a decision and scooted closer. He was ready, thoroughly prepared and desperate. Mycroft placed one hand on his hip to steady and guide him down, the other hand was on his prick. It was a tight fit, he pressed in, biting his lip to stay silent. Only when he paused did Sherlock let out a breath he was holding, eyes tightly shut. He shuddered, fought against the impulse to flee.

'Take your time,' Mycroft said, both hands now stroking Sherlock's sides to help him relax. 'Don't hurt yourself.'

Sherlock took it a challenge, rocked his hips experimentally and regretted it. Mycroft was right, as always and that realisation was more painful than the penetration. He concentrated on his breathing, Mycroft didn't rush him, as much as he wanted friction, he also liked the way Sherlock looked when he struggled to accept the intrusion. It hurt, there was no doubt about it and Sherlock opened his mouth a couple of times as if to ask Mycroft to take charge of the situation. Lying back and taking it seemed easier, but also far less exciting. Mycroft expected more of him, more self-control and dedication and simple curiosity. There was only one to find out how much will power he had, how well he could control his body. Mycroft considered whispering endearments, kissing his neck or jerking him off, yet such distractions were not necessary.

Sherlock moved deliberately slowly, testing angles, trying to get comfortable. His hands were on Mycroft's chest, involuntarily pushing him against the headboard. Mycroft didn't mind that, not when he observed Sherlock's efforts and felt him sinking down, clenching down on him. It felt heavenly for Mycroft, he was as deep inside hs brother as possible, felt his warmth and every quiver of his limbs. Sherlock bent down, waited until the unreleased sob stopped bothering him and resumed his careful movements. Soon he found the proper motivation, the perfect angle. Every little nudge against his prostate sent waves of pleasure through his entire body. He rode Mycroft with precision, amazed by his own reactions. Without his conscious decision, he threw his head back, mouth hanging open, nothing stopped his moans. Mycroft dragged his thumb across Sherlock's lip, hard enough to make him feel it.

'Look at me,' he ordered and Sherlock, oddly obedient, did as he was told. His unfocused gaze and a poor attempt at making the simplest utterance were as arousing as amusing, no-one who knew him would believe he could be so uncharacteristically unable to argue.

'Don't look away,' Mycroft said as he moved forward, seized Sherlock's arse in a restrictive grip and held him in place. 'I want to see you.'

Sherlock tried to use the leverage he had to push back, in vain. Mycroft kept him still a moment longer, then snapped his hips upwards, into him, with more force than Sherlock expected. His eyes rolled back in his head, he tensed up when Mycroft repeated the motion over and over again. His hand moved to his erection, quite needlessly. He didn't even manage to hold it properly, one more, good thrust and he was coming. The blinding intensity of his orgasm was immensely enjoyable to watch, the way he tightened, convulsed, curled against Mycroft's chest. His satisfied sighs sounded so sweetly and delayed the rush of guilt. The boy was so pliant and soft in his arms, too weak to wriggle away. Mycroft made sure to remember this, the unusual moment of pure intimacy, uninterrupted and hopefully endless.

 

He woke in the morning feeling unexplainably happy, then the memories came flooding back. He did feel guilty, although only about his lack of remorse. Sherlock did not appear to be damaged in any way by what they had done, if anything, he seemed calmer, less argumentative. He got what he wanted, Mycroft's undivided attention, even if only for a brief time. Before Mycroft returned to London, they went for a walk, a long one, away from the path. Sherlock sank onto his knees, licked and sucked with enthusiasm, his clumsy technique surprisingly effective. He swallowed, intrigued by the force of Mycroft's climax. They smoked and walked even further away from the house. Mints and the wind helped get rid of the smell, Mummy didn't suspect a thing. Perhaps she was too distracted by the good news: Mycroft was going to visit them on Christmas Day after all and Sherlock decided to go to university and stop playing with fire.


End file.
